


Evolution of Command

by boychik



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Bullying, Eyebrows, Gen, Pre-Canon, mothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boychik/pseuds/boychik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Ishimaru's eyebrows. Too bad I'm not kidding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evolution of Command

**Author's Note:**

> I changed some details about his family relationship for this story. Nothing I write really makes sense anymore, huh? Suggestions always & forever welcome.

i.

 

When Ishimaru was very small, his eyebrows were two pale gray slants, like inverted edges of a mountain fading into the mist.

He had difficulty reading at first, and often begged his mother to stay home with him, dragging translated tomes of _Don Quixote_ and _Les Trois Mousquetaries_ to her bedside in the morning, pushing his finger over the inky inscriptions. I would if I could, his mother always replied, hitting a button on her alarm and rolling over into the empty pillow on the left side of the bed. But she had to work, so off he went to school every day. So it had been for four years.

It was recess. He had fallen down in the schoolyard--well, not fallen, but was pushed, by a dense boy with wild orange hair--and a small but sharp rock cut him smack in the center of the forehead. A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the blacktop to watch. Their cries soared in pitch like an angry smoke signal over Ishimaru, sprawled on the grass beside the asphalt. The other boy’s eyes went wide when he saw the thin line of blood drip straight and narrow between the crease made by Ishimaru’s ashy brows. The blood was the same color as Ishimaru’s eyes. 

What got Ishimaru more than the boy’s useless cruelty, more than the humiliation of the injury, and more than the pain smearing itself loud and red in disorderly patches across the inside of his skull, was the fact that through all of this, the playground attendant had disregarded any semblance of responsibility, effectively breaking the rules, that silent contract between elementary-level student and adult overseer that said I Will Protect You. Even now, he was staring calmly into space at some cumulus drifting in the marble-blue sky, fingers a makeshift bookmark in a dog-eared paperback copy of _Angels & Demons_. He wasn’t even pretending to do his job. Had one with such taste the right to the arrogance that afforded duties shirked? Only as the strain of noise grew louder did the attendant think to lift his head...

When his mother came to school Ishimaru was sitting tiny in the padded chair in the nurse’s office, back stiff, hands balled up tight and resting neatly in his lap. Her hands, soft as feathers, smoothed over his brow. The nurse had already patched up the wound, but a rusty crescent of blood had dried at the edges of his Doraemon band-aid. She brushed at its edges. What’s this? My son, she said, my son, does it hurt?

I fell, Ishimaru said. But I’m fine now.

She stared straight into the huge red eyes that seemed to look beyond her. Let’s go home. We better...

The rules have been broken, he said. It’s no fair, mama. It’s not.

Life isn’t fair, she said, and her lips twisted up strangely at her child’s naïveté. How her Kiyotaka, a child born bawling for hours, stripped of a father, could still be so pure of heart never failed to amaze her. She swept him up in arms and held him for a moment. We’ll make it better someday, huh? she said to him, smiling. I know you can do it.

 

ii.

 

Your brows are getting darker, Kiyotaka, Ishimaru’s mother said one day. Where do you get it from? Not me, and certainly not your father--he had a weak brow, of course, after all he was a weak man! You’re much stronger, I can tell...

Ishimaru remained silent throughout his mother’s rambling train of speech and continued to brush his teeth, staring at the instructional chart on the wall. The diagram showed a child much younger than he holding a bright blue toothbrush. It said to hold the toothbrush at a 45-degree angle and brush your teeth in a circular motion for no less than two minutes. Brush all surfaces, both inner and outer. Don’t forget the molars! Make sure the bristles are soft. Replace your toothbrush every six months, when the bristles begin to fall out, or when it shows wear. Fun fact: Toothpaste was used in China and India as early as 500 BCE. Fun fact: Animal bristles were used in prototypical versions of the toothbrush, but they retained bacteria, and weren’t very good at cleaning the teeth. After the Second World War, nylon was used as material for bristles. Fun fact: Ishimaru read this chart five times over, twice a day.

You can stay home today if you like, his mother said. Keep me company.

His mother had lost her job the month before. She had sent out her resume to a dozen places and was waiting for callbacks all day at home. She watched TV mostly, sitting on the couch that squeaked when you sat on it because of the broken springs. I’ve gotten really into Spanish soap operas, she told Kiyotaka when he came home from school. You know Corazón Valiente? When he shook his head no she would say, It means Brave Heart. Just like you! And she’d scoop him into her arms and ruffle his hair. Ishimaru found it a bit embarrassing at his age, but enjoyed her hugs. Whenever the phone rang she would jump up from the belly of the couch, a knot would twist and hang in her stomach, and her thin brows would draw together. It’s nice, she said to Kiyotaka. It’s like being on vacation.

No, Ishimaru said to his mother. She recoiled and he realized he had snapped at her. I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to shout. But I can’t skip school! It’s VERY important!

He straightened his armband, red on his white jacket like a seal of approval. Only this year had he been recognized for exemplary conduct and issued the honor of becoming bus monitor. Just one small step away from the prestigious position of hall monitor, but Ishimaru did not let his ambition deter him from carrying out his stated duties. He was clean, alert, and punctual every day.

Every day before he got on the bus, these two baby JDs accosted him. Give us your money, they said, curling their fingers into fists. That’s against the rules, Ishimaru announced. I’m going to report you! Ooooh, I’m scared, thug one crooned. You should be! Ishimaru responded, ignorant of the bigger boy’s mocking tone. What a prick, thug two said before slugging him in the face and emptying Ishimaru’s change into his sweaty hand. It jangled loudly as he walked off, snickering. Every day Ishimaru reported them, writing down in meticulous print _Infraction: Accosting a Bus Monitor; Suggested Consequence: Detention_ , on one of the many pink slips he carried in the inner pocket of his backpack.

Jeez, come off it, Ishimaru, you’re just a bus monitor, grumbled the other bus monitor. You think the kids on the disciplinary committee are gonna care? They’re just gonna laugh at a self-righteous jerk.

Ishimaru glanced out the window as the bus bumped along, but turned his head back to the other boy as the bus puffed to a halt in front of the school.

Who? Ishimaru asked. I’ll write them up too...

 

iii.

 

My baby’s nose is all bruised, his mother said. Her eyes were heavy, half-lidded. She opened her arms to him, still buried in the sofa. Come here.

Ishimaru hung his white jacket on the peg near the door. Did you get any calls today, mother?

Not yet, honey, I’ll keep looking... She yawned, a beast of air. Wanna watch Gitanas with me? It’s good.

I have schoolwork, mother, he said and brushed past her to the bathroom.

He looked into the mirror as he brushed his teeth. A bruise was darkening on the bridge of his nose. The blood was open to the air in a few spots--no doubt a host of dead skin cells and particles of dirt had edged their way into his nose. He cleaned the wound and applied gauze without flinching.

Ishimaru stared at the chart hanging above the towel rack. 

Don’t forget the molars! it said cheerily, or so Ishimaru imagined. He leaned in to spit and caught sight of his face in the mirror. He looked older, somehow. Suddenly he felt very tired, gazing at the hollows under his eyes. Something was different. A few dark, wiry hairs had sprouted along the inner edge of his brow, pointing contrary to the natural line of growth. They hadn’t been there before. Ishimaru frowned deeply at the insidious growth. He tried valiantly to brush the hairs back with a comb, but they only seemed to grow thicker, arching towards his brow and across his forehead.

He shrugged and wiped his face. There were more important offenses to worry about than a few disobedient hairs. He dropped into his desk chair and opened the first of a pile of books. Lit first, until eight. Calculus until nine. The lab he should be able to finish before ten-thirty, and the history essay by one o’clock, leaving almost five whole hours to sleep. Not bad. There was so much to study, so much to learn, after all. How could he absorb it all in a mere six hours per night? He eased open a copy of _Hamlet_ but soon the words broke apart into black fish and swam across a white sky. _Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge. Revenge!_ the fishies cried, waving their tails in great flopping motions. _Have you got your revenge?_

No, Ishimaru mumbled, eyes cast at his backpack, sitting dark and still like a boulder on the floor.

 _Come with us!_ they said. _Let’s watch Gitanas. It’ll be fun. Don’t forget the molars!_

iv.

He woke to the sound of his mother flushing the toilet.

He had fallen asleep on top of his pile of books. Hamlet’s despairing face was partly obscured by a small puddle of drool, but Ishimaru didn’t have time to worry about such trivialities. He had to pack everything up and get out the door, lest he be late for his job. Once late, twice scorned, then forever rejected for any monitoring duties... It was a slippery slope. He could not risk his job, nay,his life being ripped from him so crudely.

You don’t deserve...You don’t deserve...

Strange thoughts whisper in his ear but he brushes them off like cobwebs stretching their way across the broken screen door at the back of the house. Neither he nor his mother really has the time to fix it, but it’s there, dirty tape plastered across the ragged metal mesh, creaking on its hinges. They mostly ignore it. The front door’s fine anyway.

His mother is smiling this morning. Ishimaru’s not usually one to notice such things, but in the first slices of morning light cutting across the kitchen, his mother’s hair falls long and uncombed down her back. She smiles hugely with teeth as white and straight as (unbeknownst to him) the protagonists of his classmates’ beloved American movies, and it is like a deer’s bone found surprisingly in a wooded path or a tiny jellyfish, sparkling in an ocean thousands of feet deep: it is beautiful.

Kiyotaka, his mother said to him, Kiyotaka, I’ve gotten a callback! My interview is tomorrow, isn’t that wonderful! I’m going to start working again.

Ishimaru broke into a grin. Mom! I’m so happy for you. We’ll work so hard together.

Pay off all the debt, is what neither of them says out loud, but it’s there: the image of a thousand sack of money ripped and pouring down on them, a golden shower of coins so that his mother can smile and laugh and laugh until she breaks down in tears...

When he comes home that afternoon he’s received a letter, stamped and sealed with the name: Hope’s Peak Academy. It’s nearing the end of the school year and it makes sense that private schools would send out solicitations around this time. Still, he has to focus on the tasks at hand, and it is with this mindset that he slips the unopened envelope under his pillow and does not open it until morning.

 

v.

 

He presents her with the letter, rimmed in academic red, glue freshly pressed into the inside of the flap--certainly not licked, like a child’s thank you or an animal’s welcome gesture. It’s a proper weight, the paper, not too heavy, not too light.

It’s apparently quite prestigious, Ishimaru said. But I can’t say I know much about it.

Oh, Kiyotaka, his mother sighed. They’ve been giving you a hard time, I know. This is a good opportunity for you. Not good. Great!

Super High School Level Prime Minister, Ishimaru thinks in his head. Super High School Level Prime Minister of Japan... Barring of course the age requirement, and the prior prerequisite political experience, and that quality common to politicians where they must remember the names of everyone they’ve ever met, and their pet--And before that, of course, a high-school diploma and college degree--and before that, of course, many more hours of study, many more promises he must fulfill--

I’ll be working anyway, his mother said. And you’ll be away. Ohh, I’m going to miss my son so much!

Here she threw her arms around his neck and beamed up into his face. What will I do without you? My tall and handsome son...you’ve really grown up, huh...

Ishimaru’s face twitched as he looked down at his mother. He wasn’t either, really, but didn’t want to say so--and he had caught sight of the clock on the wall behind her. The hands had slowly crept past twelve and seven. We’re going to be late, mom!

He whipped on his backpack and raced across the room. His mom had barely a moment to wave him off, shout goodbye! and jimmy a high heel back onto her foot before he was out the door.

 

Despite Ishimaru’s hustle and bustle, he wasn’t late. The bus hadn’t come yet. His thugs were waiting for him, predictably.

I don’t have anything, Ishimaru said, staring at his feet.

Liar, thug one said. You’re a liar and a nerd and a shitty little punk! He started to form a fist.

What are you gonna do, write us up? thug two sneered. That won’t do shit.

I don’t have anything, Ishimaru repeated, quieter than before. His brows drove two hard lines from the tips of his temple to the bridge of his nose. 

What’s that? one of them asked. I can’t hear you. He cupped a hand to his ear. A mocking gesture.

Ishimaru’s brows seemed to tremble off his head. The way they’d been growing as of late was completely perverse. Did they spawn quadruple the hairs in the presence of stress? Was this the true, secret effect of puberty on the human male, intentionally undisclosed by the health class instructors? Or was it simply a sign that he was suited for higher duties? It was true, Ishimaru didn’t notice it at first when the first insidious hairs began sprouting along his brow. They grew in quickly, though, dark and wiry and pushing through his skin in a way he found foreign and hard to resist. Ishimaru would stand in front of the mirror and frown deeply. Jab an accusatory finger at the silver surface. But soon he couldn’t even see those lines that separated his brows, so perverse was the growth. Now, his hairs spiraled toward his potential attackers, bushing out with long ropes of hair that sought only to sweep about the necks of his enemies and squeeze--

Oh shit, said one of the thugs. Oh shit. I’ve seen this before, happened to Daiya one time, he’s gonna--

They scampered off and Ishimaru sadly thought of his special pen and the pink slips in the inner pocket of his backpack. Sorry, guys, not today...

His eyebrows retreated. They had done their duty to protect him, and now it was time to resume the realistic course of life. But if they hadn’t intervened, Ishimaru would have gotten beat up for sure. That would have been just a little too bit realistic for their taste.

 

vi.

 

I bought you this, the note said. xoxo Mom.

Ishimaru picked up the package off the coffee table and inspected it. MAN’S ELECTRIC RAZOR was emblazoned across the front in large flashy letters. FOR MAN’S USE ONLY!!!!! Five exclamation marks? Ishimaru didn’t think that was a proper amount of excitement in proportion to the product, so he took a Sharpie and carefully blacked out four of the exclamation points. The institution of balance in advertising calmed him somewhat. He set the package back down, its edges aligned with those of the table.

Thanks, mom, he said aloud. This will sure come in handy someday. Maybe never.

Why should an electric razor help him achieve his goals in life? Sometimes Ishimaru just didn’t understand his mom.

 

vii.

 

She didn’t come home that night. She left a message: Hello my son, I won’t be home tonight, dinner’s in the fridge, just heat it up or order out if you want, I left some money on the table, okay, I have to go, bye--

Then a long beep.

Ishimaru wasn’t hungry. Besides, why should he feed his body when he had yet to feed his mind?

It was back to normal in his house, and Ishimaru wasn’t sorry. Still, it felt a little strange that first day. His mother wasn’t depressed into the sofa, but the impression of her form remained. Ishimaru almost expected to hear the creaking of the broken springs, or her voice humming along with the theme song to some telenovela...

Ishimaru set his books in his room and sat down to work, but he couldn’t focus. He’d grown accustomed to hearing the muted blare of Spanish voices sobbing deeply over lost loves, or yelling rapidly at their lovers, or whispering secrets that none should know but amantes...

And oh, would you look at that. Seven p.m. and Gitanas was on.

 _El es un hombre de verdad!_ one woman screamed to a dark-eyed, scantily clad man.

 _Pero, señora,_ he said, _Mira sus cejos...¡eso es imposible!_

And on it went, these nonsensical declarations, round the clock, past one, and two, and three, when his mother came home and collapsed into bed, all thoughts of lunch money or Gitanas or Hope’s Peak Academy planted firmly and far away from any member of the Ishimaru family’s wandering mind.


End file.
